surprised me. Ever since Agrigento he'd been subdued. Stunned by the realization of what he'd done. Now, as we drew closer to Villalba, I sensed a shift in him, an anger that overcame whatever guilt he felt, becoming stronger as the distance from his murderous act increased. Were we getting closer to another? I wanted to ask him directly, but I couldn't assume the driver didn't understand English. A man like Don Calogero Vizzini hadn't survived without playing every angle, and I figured he'd want to know anything that passed between us.
'Tell me about the village you were born in, Enrico.' I had a suspicion that whatever secret he was keeping about his family was the reason for his actions. All of them, including killing Tommy the C and staying with me.
'It is not important,' he said.
'What did your father do?'
'My father is a physician.'
'Not your adoptive father. Your real father,' I said. 'What was his name?'
There was silence in the car. Sciafani put his hand to his mouth, as if to keep the name from slipping out. Leaning against the window, his eyes darted to the driver, who stared straight ahead. He switched on his lights, illuminating the winding road and the looming pine branches that crowded over it.
'Nunzio. Nunzio Infantino,' Sciafani said, balling the hand pressed against his mouth into a fist so that the name was barely understandable. He closed his eyes and doubled up, as if in great pain, still holding his hand to his mouth. I waited. Finally he opened his hand and gasped for breath, exhausted from the ordeal of uttering his father's name.
The driver spoke, I think to ask Sciafani if he was going to be sick. He glanced back and Sciafani shook his head and gestured for him to keep driving. I nodded and was rewarded with another Sicilian shrug.
'Was your village like the villages we drove through today? All the buildings crowded together, maybe located at a crossroads?'
'No, there is no crossroads. But it does sit upon a hilltop, surrounding the Chiesa di San Filippo, where I was baptized. As Enrico Infantino.'
I was watching the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. I could only see half his face, but I saw him react to the name: a blink, a quick look in the mirror at Sciafani, then back to the road. Whether he understood English or not, he'd recognized that name. I tapped Sciafani on the arm, where the driver couldn't see, and signaled with my hand to keep it down. He nodded.
'Well, whatever General Eisenhower thinks about the Mafia, he'll be very glad if Don Calo cooperates. It will not only save American lives but Sicilian lives too, in all those small villages like yours. Many lives, Enrico.'
He shook his head. Now that he'd spoken his father's name, I wondered if the whole history of his life that he'd kept buttoned up was aching to be released. But he'd gotten my warning about the driver, that maybe he'd said too much already. So he sighed and handed me the burlap bag with the big Bodeo revolver still in it.
'Yes,' he said sadly. 'Many lives, many innocent lives. You would think it would be a simple choice, wouldn't you?'
'There are no simple choices. People think there are because they don't think about their options. My father used to say that if people thought through what might happen before they acted there'd be a lot less killing on any Saturday night. He's a homicide detective, in Boston.'
'He is wise, but some people need to act more and think less. A lifetime of thinking alone is no good. A desire that is never acted upon becomes pitiful. Do you know your Shakespeare, Billy? Hamlet?'
'Well, I had to read it in school. I had a hard time with it so my dad took me to see the play. They were putting it on at Harvard. It was a lot easier to listen to than read.'
'One of my English teachers had us read Shakespeare and memorize passages as part of our lessons. In act three, Hamlet says:
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.'
'I remember that part about conscience making cowards of us all,' I said. I hadn't understood anything the actors were saying at first, and then all of a sudden I realized I understood everything, and that it was beautiful.
'It is very true. But I think if Hamlet had gone to war, that pale cast of thought would not have lasted. He had to revenge himself on the man who killed his father. Don Calo killed mine.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We chugged up a long, steep hill, surrounded by acres of wheat on all sides. Workers dotted the fields, cutting and stacking the crop, moving like a ragged line of infantry, stooping for cover and then moving forward again, mowing down the enemy that faced them in never-ending rows. We passed a donkey, laden with bundles of grain, led by a peasant woman. She wore a gray tattered dress, her stooped head covered by a black scarf. Adding to the donkey's burden, a man sat astride it, his feet scraping the road.
'He will wear out his wife and his donkey before he walks,' Sciafani said. 'Then he will have nothing and will look back with longing on the days when he used to ride an ass.'
The driver laughed. I'd been right-he understood English. I looked at Sciafani, and he shrugged, an eloquent gesture that said, What can we do?
The car crested a rise and picked up speed as the village of Villalba came into view. The sun was setting behind us and lit the town, bathing the gray and brown stone walls in soft light, casting jagged shadows into the streets. Villalba sat on a gentle slope, surrounded by cultivated fields and a hilltop overlooking it to the north. It looked like any other town we'd passed through, but this was the end of the line, one way or the other. No troops were digging entrenchments; no machine guns covered the road into town. Villalba was not a crossroads, not a strategic center. Its only military value lay in what one man might or might not do, in how much weight a silk handkerchief carried, and how convincing I could be.
The car turned into a large piazza, anchored at one end by a two-story building with BANCO DI SICILIA in large letters at the top and at the other by a tall church tower. I wasn't surprised when the driver stopped right between them, in front of a house where a young man lounged against the wall next to an iron gate, his lupara slung over his shoulder. The windows were narrow and guarded with iron grilles. I wrapped the burlap bag around Tommy the C's revolver and shoved it under the seat in front of me. I glanced at Sciafani and he nodded wearily in agreement. There were bound to be more shotguns inside, and two guys bringing a dead caporegime 's pistol into a Mafia chief 's house would mean a very short stay.
The driver got out and signaled us to follow the guard through the gate. As I did, I felt an odd satisfaction at having made it this far. A few days ago, I'd had no idea who I was or why I was here. I'd fought the Germans, escaped a Mob trap, been smuggled across the mountains, bombed, faced down bandits, and regained most of my memory in the process. Two men had been murdered, and others, including Harry, had died, all for this damn silk handkerchief stuffed deep in my pocket. I realized I didn't know exactly what to say to Don Calo, or if he'd understand me. Nick was the one who spoke the Sicilian dialect fluently, and who knew where the hell he had ended up.
The walls of the house were thick, and the entryway opened into a small courtyard with a covered walkway around it. The windows facing the inner courtyard were wide and open, with welcoming soft yellow light spilling out onto the stones. I heard the clatter of dishes and women's laughter. It was strange, delightful, and disorienting.
The guard put his palm out, signaling us to wait. He removed his cap, stamped his feet to shake off the dirt and dust, and opened a door, leaving us alone in the darkening courtyard. If it wasn't for the guard on the other side of an iron gate, I would've been tempted to run, grab the car, and head for the hills. Except we were already in the hills. Surrounded by Italians and Germans. I shivered, chilled by this thought and by the night air. Sciafani brushed at his suit and tucked in his shirt, doing his best to make himself presentable. With all the dirt, blood, and sweat
